ATF: Monday Will Come Soon Enough
by foggynite
Summary: Ezra is filled with apprehension the week before he starts his new job.


************************   
Magnificent Seven ATF/AU   
************************   
Monday Will Come Soon Enough   
By Foggynite   
  
Rating: PG   
  
General Discourse: I don't own them, please don't sue me. Thanks to MOG for creating this great universe, and all the other authors for embellishing it!   
  
Note: While my first fic was humorous, I must warn that I was feeling slightly morose when writing this one. I promise more funny stuff will find its way out in the future! (I probably need to take some more NyQuil . . .)   
  
************************   
  
  
Plip . . .   
  
Plip . . .   
  
Plip . . .   
  
The faucet dripped a rapid staccato out of sync with Ezra's hazy thoughts. He really should have checked the plumbing before moving into this middle class pit.   
  
But it was his. He had made it his without help from his mother or her financiers; without suggestions from friends or recommendations from a realtor. He had chosen it by himself after searching through the classifieds and neighborhoods, after looking through seedy apartments and expensive houses for rent. It was something done on his own without assistance, just like everything else in his adult life, and he was proud of his barren accommodations. The feeling crept almost fearfully within him, knowing it would be rejected upon recognition and cast out. To be proud of his new domain meant he cared for it, and that would never do.   
  
Plip . . .   
  
His things were scheduled to arrive from Georgia on Thursday, but he could survive on what he had stashed in the trunk of his Jaguar for weeks if need be. He hoped he wouldn't. Monday marked the beginning of a new episode in his life, and he found himself uncharacteristically plagued by anxieties that threatened to overwhelm him.   
  
This was his last chance.   
  
If he screwed this position up, his career as a government agent was over. He would be forced to either find another line of work, or crawl back to his mother. His sense of pride rebelled at the very thought. More willing to apply his talents elsewhere than ever face her scorn, he was still at a loss as to what else he could do.   
  
If only those damn rumors hadn't started . . .   
  
If only he hadn't been so defensive when confronted . . .   
  
If only . . .   
  
Plip . . .   
  
But there was no time for remorse. Thinking back on all the things he could have done, should have done, would not help him now. Life threw its punches and he gave as good as he got. He could only move on and continue his work, whether or not his new associates knew the rumors or disliked the smooth Southern agent.   
  
The bedroom was cold and drafty in the Colorado autumn. Atlanta would still be steamy and humid, and he missed the languid feelings it evoked. He felt like child that had snuggled beneath the covers with his favorite blanket, only to be wrenched out of bed and thrust onto the darkened porch in the middle of the night.   
  
His mind was reeling from the events of the past few weeks, wanting to deny the reality of his currently tenuous position with a team he didn't know. There were five of them, but only one had a face to go with his name so far.   
  
Chris Larabee had sought him out, where he had heard of the undercover operative might never be revealed, and presented him with an offer he could not refuse. Larabee needed a man of his talent and things in vice had soured; none of the other agents trusted him or were willing to work with him, his superior was contemplating an investigation into all his affairs, and even his best friend refused to be associated with a supposedly dirty cop. His options were limited, so he decided to make the best of it and agreed to transfer to Team Seven in the ATF. Larabee had stated it as a "fresh start," but the stigma of distrust and betrayal had been driven too deep into his soul to be easily forgotten.   
  
He told himself he didn't care about the Georgia office, the officers there who were supposed to be his friends. Even though it was hard for him to socialize without a specially contrived facade, he had warmed enough to the cheerful atmosphere of the vice squad to be comfortable around the others. Even though he had the reputation of being a maverick and the powers that be had gone so far as to assign him a partner, they had included him in their gatherings and enjoyed his sarcastic humor.   
  
But that acceptance quietly trickled away as the rumors began, and that hurt worst of all.   
  
Plip . . .   
  
Now he lay on top of his unmade bed, staring out the uncurtained window at the half moon. Just thinking of the coming week made his stomach clench involuntarily, reminding him of the nights in boarding school he would spend awake as a child, dreading the next semester.   
  
His mother had always found some excuse to leave him there a few weeks early, and he would be forced to awkwardly mingle with other rich kids whose parents had better things to do. They never liked him at first in any of the schools, or just liked the sound of his latest stepfather's money, so he developed the ability to judge what each person wanted and play to his audience.   
  
For a while, it seemed like he lost sight of the real Ezra and found himself just running through personalities for every requirement of the day. Certain cliques found cruelty amusing while others were more intellectually based, while still others pampered eachother's egos or liked to goof off in class. It was always what he could do for them or show them or give them that drew the crowds. His lack of respect for authority would alienate teachers and gain the awe of other students. His life turned into a series of acts with no real meaning behind any of his actions. In the end, he would become disgusted with himself or worn out, and stop pretending. That's when he would lash out and find himself being shipped to Maude's latest home.   
  
Not really preferable to the claustrophobic restraints of school, his stay in her households would be filled with uncomfortable tension. All her husbands treated him as his mother did; like a light fixture that wouldn't turn off when it was supposed to. If the rich groom had children, Ezra was predestined to despise them on sight, which had caused a few scenes despite his efforts to remain a perfect angel. One or two of his step siblings had been nice, but more often than not they did their best to make him feel gawky and foolish. His repeated conflicts embarrassed Maude, and after a while she stopped inviting him to stay after the weddings, only allowing him to come at all because his absence would be unseemly. Ironically, his later absences caused no comment.   
  
It was from those 'special' occasions that he had first observed the amazing art of dissembling. Even her fourth husband, who hated even his own kids, stood in the reception line with a smile on his face and hand clasped in a gesture of mock-fondness on Ezra's shoulder. Most of the time, the rebellious boy avoided all contact with his mother's new families, while hoping and striving for just a second of her attention. Although, he had actually liked her third husband, a divorcee with no kids who insisted he come home during breaks and was interested in finding out what Ezra thought. But that romance had fizzled once Maude began finding little imperfections in the relationship, a platinum charge card, and bigger fish to fry.   
  
Plip . . .   
  
The former FBI agent rolled onto his back with a sigh.   
  
Never really considering himself a drifter before, during this latest move he realized with an unidentifiable feeling that he was very efficient at uprooting himself and quietly continuing on. For the last two days, he had immersed himself in the familiar routine of packing and labeling boxes, deciding to hire a moving company to deal with transporting all his meager possessions. Traveling light meant leaving was that much easier, also meant he had that much less distraction.   
  
He should have known better than to get too comfortable in Georgia. That had been a sure sign it would all come crashing down. It was his own fault for bringing all this misery down on himself. He had learned early on in life that if you didn't let yourself care, then you didn't get hurt. But he had cared, and everyone had stabbed him in the back.   
  
He didn't want a "fresh start." He didn't want to go to the ATF office on Monday and face those people. They would be judging him, weighing his worth, and he didn't know what he would do if he came up short.   
  
But first impressions were his forte. He would walk in there as casual as can be in a nice suit, and smile, and make their acquaintances, and then he would impress them with his intellectual prowess, and everything would be fine.   
  
Yes, he'd be alright. He was his mother's son, and nothing could keep him down for long. Appearance was everything. Appearance was what he excelled in. All he had to do was keep them from seeing behind the mask, and he would be fine.   
  
Everything would be fine.   
  
Yawning from the tension and lack of sleep, the Southerner took one last look out at the Colorado night sky. Then he curled up on his side and fell into an uneasy sleep.   
  
Afterall, Monday would come soon enough.   
  
Plip . . .   
  
Plip . . .   
  
Plip . . .   
  
**********************   
Finis 10/8/99   
**********************   



End file.
